The battlefield was silent.
Smoke still curled upward from the scorched plateau, the scent of burned flesh clinging to the air like a curse. Ash drifted around him, falling across his shoulders, clinging to his hair, settling in his lungs with every trembling breath.
The prince knelt in the center of it all—hands blackened by the fire that did not burn him, chest heaving as though he had just clawed his way out of his own grave. His pulse thundered in his ears. His body was shaking, though whether from terror, exhaustion, or the aftershock of that forbidden flame, he couldn't tell.
He dared to look down at his palms. The flames had dwindled, but not entirely. They lingered, black tongues licking his skin, stubborn and alive, like serpents unwilling to release their prey. They didn't sear him, didn't blister his flesh. Instead, they caressed him with warmth, familiar—as though they had always belonged to him.
"No…" he whispered hoarsely. His throat was raw, ragged from screaming. "This… this isn't mine. It can't be…"
And then the voice came. Smooth, deep, dripping with a dark delight.
"It is yours. Ours. Do you not feel it, vessel? The page has turned."
The Codex's words slithered into his mind, tugging at the edges of his thoughts until he could not tell where his fear ended and its hunger began.
"Page…?"
The sigil in his eyes burned, and for a moment the world blurred. His vision split open, revealing symbols written across reality itself—lines of black script etched into the air, into the ground, into the very marrow of his bones. One line flared brighter than the rest. A page. A beginning.
"Page One," the Codex whispered with reverence. "Essence Devourer. From this moment forth, all who fall to you shall feed you. Their strength, their speed, their skill—everything they are will become yours. Nothing wasted. Nothing forgotten. Only consumed."
The prince's stomach twisted. He remembered the assassin's scream, the way flesh and soul alike had been stripped away and swallowed by the fire. He remembered the intoxicating rush afterward—the surge of vigor in his blood, the terrifying clarity in his senses, the way his body no longer felt broken.
It was strength. It was life.
But it was also a theft. A desecration.
"I didn't… I didn't want this," he muttered. His hands curled into fists, but the flames only clung tighter, eager. "I never asked to be a monster."
The Codex chuckled softly, the sound like dry pages turning in a tomb.
"And yet, you begged to live. You begged for strength. What are monsters, but those who were willing to survive where others perished? You have what you wanted, whether you admit it or not."
The prince's breath hitched. He wanted to deny it, to scream—but he remembered the blade descending, remembered the suffocating terror of annihilation. And then the release, the fire, the power. He had survived, hadn't he?
A cold realization settled over him: survival had a price.
The Codex's presence swelled, pressing against his thoughts.
"Test it. Feel it. You buried weakness in these ashes, and from their remains, you rise stronger. Essence Devourer has no end. With each kill, you will carve your place in eternity."
His gaze shifted to the ground where the assassins had fallen. There was nothing left but shadows scorched into stone, black stains where men had stood. Their bodies—no, their very being—had become a part of him now. He could still feel them pulsing in his veins: one's swiftness in the twitch of his muscles, another's strength lingering in his breath.
The thought made bile rise in his throat. He turned aside and retched, but only ash and blood spilled out.
Was this what he was becoming? A graveyard of stolen lives?
The Codex did not relent.
"Better a graveyard than a forgotten name. Do you not see? With every essence, you step further from the weakling they abandoned, and closer to the sovereign they will one day kneel before."
The words sank deep, dangerous and alluring. A seed of pride stirred within him despite his horror. For the first time, he thought of his brothers—their jeers, their smug strength, their certainty he would never rise above crawling in the dirt. For the first time, he thought of the Emperor's cold eyes, stripping him of worth.
If they could see him now—standing amidst the ashes of assassins meant to erase him—would they still laugh? Would they still call him weak?
His trembling slowed. His chest still burned with fear, but something else smoldered there too. Something darker.
The flames at his fingertips pulsed, as if sensing his thoughts.
The Codex's voice purred.
"You feel it now. Power. Destiny. This is only the beginning. Essence Devourer will carry you through the graves of your enemies, until the throne itself is nothing but fuel for your flame."
The prince exhaled shakily. His heart thundered, torn between dread and hunger. He was horrified by what he had done, by what he was becoming—yet he couldn't deny the truth glowing inside his veins. He was stronger. He was alive.
And survival demanded more.
He looked once more at his hands. The black fire coiled around them, whispering promises. He tried to clench his fists, to smother the flame, but it clung stubbornly—as though it had already chosen him.
Perhaps it had.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. His legs trembled, but he did not collapse. The ashes swirled in the wind, carrying away the last traces of the men who had called him cripple. He buried their memory in silence, though deep down he knew—he had already consumed them. They lived on inside him, unwilling prisoners of his survival.
The Codex laughed softly, a sound both triumphant and damning.
"The first page has opened, vessel. And many more await. Feed me. Feed yourself. Devour… and ascend."
The prince stood alone on the blackened plateau, the last of the embers fading into night. The weight of his choice pressed upon him like a crown he had never wanted, yet could no longer refuse.
He whispered into the silence, a vow or a confession—he could not tell.
"…I will survive."
And the Nether Flame flickered in answer.
The vow lingered in the air, swallowed by the night.
For a long time, he stood motionless, his chest rising and falling, the flickering flame at his fingertips the only proof he was still alive. The silence pressed down upon him, broken only by the restless whisper of the Codex.
"Survival," it crooned, savoring the word like wine on its tongue. "Yes. That is the beginning of all things. But do you not feel it? What lies beneath that vow? Hunger."
He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. But the voice was right. Something was stirring in him. It gnawed at his belly, throbbed behind his ribs. It wasn't the need for food, nor water. It was deeper, older—a hollow ache that only the fire could fill.
He staggered forward, his boots crunching against scorched stone. Each step felt heavier, as though the earth itself recoiled from him. He reached the edge of the plateau and sank to his knees, staring into the shadows.
His body hummed with stolen strength. His muscles no longer trembled with weakness. His wounds, deep as they had been, had closed into faint scars. His senses stretched further than before—he could hear the distant scurry of rats in the ravines below, the flap of a night-bird's wings. Even the pulse of his own blood felt sharper, louder.
It was intoxicating. Terrifying.
He flexed his fingers. The black fire answered, flaring up with ease, no longer needing fear or desperation to awaken. It came when he willed it, as natural as drawing breath. He nearly dropped to the ground again, dizzy with realization.
"This power… it listens to me," he whispered. "No… it wants me."
The Codex purred approval.
"You are its master, and it your servant. But only if you continue to feed it. Do you understand, vessel? The flame is not a gift. It is a pact. Every ember is born from what you consume."
His throat tightened. The assassins' screams still rang in his ears, but now they mingled with the thrill of victory, the relief of survival. And yes—the hunger. He could no longer deny it.
"I… I killed them," he muttered, gripping his head. "And now I want more."
"Then take more," the Codex hissed. "That is Page One. Essence Devourer. Their deaths are not the end, but the seed of your rise. Every enemy is a meal. Every battle, a harvest. To deny it is to return to weakness. Do you wish to crawl again? To be mocked? To be nothing?"
He shook his head violently, but the images came unbidden—his brothers sneering, his father's cold eyes, the jeers of outlaws who had beaten him bloody. A heat rose inside him, not shame, not grief, but fury.
"No," he growled. His voice was harsh, unfamiliar. "Never again."
The Codex's laughter rolled through his skull, rich and pleased.
"Then devour. With each essence you claim, you will climb higher. And with each page that opens, you will shed the skin of weakness, until nothing can bind you."
The prince stared into the darkness beyond the plateau. His heart was steady now, though the fire still whispered in his veins. He did not know what he was becoming, only that the path back no longer existed. There was only forward, and forward was paved with ashes.
The night wind carried a new sound to him. At first faint, then growing—low, rhythmic thuds, like the heartbeat of a giant. He raised his head, eyes narrowing, his sharpened hearing catching every pulse of it.
Drums.
War drums.
His body stiffened. Somewhere in the distance, a warband was on the move. And with each beat, the Codex thrummed inside him, eager, ravenous.
"Do you hear them, vessel?" it whispered. "More prey. More fuel. Your next feast approaches."
The prince rose slowly, the Nether Flame coiling like shadows around his hands. His fear had not vanished—it clung to him still—but beneath it burned something fiercer.
Resolve.
He turned toward the sound, the darkness parting before his gaze.
"I swore I would survive," he murmured. "Then let them come."
The drums rolled on, closer, louder, promising blood and fire.
And the Nether Flame stirred, waiting.